


Forgiveness

by Tranquility, velva777



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Bottom Loki, Bottom Thor, Counterintelligence, Drama, Drugs, English translation, Explicit Sexual Content, Fanart, Gestapo, Hurt Thor, Hurt/Comfort, Loki Feels, Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M, Porn With Plot, Prison, Suicidal Thoughts, Thor Feels, Top Loki, Torture, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9618662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tranquility/pseuds/Tranquility, https://archiveofourown.org/users/velva777/pseuds/velva777
Summary: “Thor… If that is your real name,” said Loki with a deliberate pleasantness to his tone. “You are not in a position to negotiate."WWII. Loki is a Gestapo Counterintelligence Officer. Thor is a Norwegian Communist. Drama ensues.English translation





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Прощение](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/262778) by velva777. 



> Translated by Tranquillity  
> Beta [ChloeWeird](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ChloeWeird)
> 
>    
> From the translator:  
> This story blooms with flowers and drips with blood. It gave me the kind of problematic Loki I always wanted. I thought about it for a year and then I just had to translate it, so that you can read it too!  
>  **Warning for graphic rape and violence, some torture at the beginning, drugs, Nazis, general war horribleness.**

Obersturmführer Loki Laufeyson, of the Gestapo Security and Counterintelligence Department 'North', was on his way to the dungeons: the endless stone steps, security post, the dark corridor. Finally, the interrogation room. Loki didn’t like conducting interrogations in his office — Gestapo men worked messily. It usually required a brigade of janitors afterwards. The interrogation room, on the other hand, had all the necessary conditions for creating an 'enhanced atmosphere', as the officers liked to joke.

Loki walked into the stuffy, damp room with a low ceiling, took off his leather trench coat, hung it up. He sat at the desk, opened the file and started reading. The dim light from the single light bulb above him gleamed on the shiny peak of his brand new service cap. Footsteps echoed in the corridor, and two guards, armed with submachine guns, brought in the prisoner: shirt torn, pants bloodied, hands cuffed behind his back. Golden shoulder-length hair, piercing blue eyes. Stubble, lips drawn into a tight line. Face bruised, swollen cheekbone under the right eye. 

Loki raised his eyebrow, motioning to the guards. They forcefully pushed the prisoner into the chair opposite the desk, then retreated a few steps and froze in place. 

Loki studied the case file.

Thor Odinson. Norwegian. Communist, member of the Milorg resistance movement, part of the Sivorg coordination committee, personal friend of Peder Morset. Under the alias of Sigurd Thorsen infiltrated the Reich Ministry for Weapons, Munitions and Armament, sending the information over the radio transmitter set up in an attic. Caught red-handed, due to the vigilance of the landlord. Resisted arrest, killed two soldiers. Refused to cooperate. 

Loki set the folder aside and slowly raised his cold green eyes to look at the prisoner. The captive stared back at him like a feral beast. Loki felt a surge of excitement at the sight of this primordial animalistic force. He liked force, savagery and real manly brutality. Especially in bed. Despite the official ban on homosexuality, Loki preferred men. 

They silently stared at each other for some time before Loki started, “So, you were caught red-handed. You are well-known in Berlin; they have sent us your profile. I advise you to cooperate with us. If we achieve a mutual understanding, your life will be spared.” 

Thor let out a bitter chuckle. Loki’s gaze followed the line of his broad shoulders. _Resisted arrest, killed two soldiers._

“I’m not fool enough to believe that you would spare my life,” said Thor through the teeth.

Loki smiled to himself. So, he was talking now. Excellent. It was much worse when the prisoners just kept silent. Made it impossible to extract any information, even when they screamed under the torture. If this prisoner was already talking, there was a chance Loki would be able to crack him. 

“In this case, I can offer you a headshot.” Loki gave him a half-smile. 

“It’s a generous offer. Fits your style.” Thor curled his lip in disdain, looking at Loki as if he was a rotten piece of meat, swamped with maggots. 

“Thor… If that is your real name,” said Loki with a deliberate pleasantness to his tone. “You are not in a position to negotiate. We are both civilised people, Aryans — one race, one blood. My offer is genuine. We are interested in working with you. If you tell us what we want to know and agree to appear on the Norwegian radio to appeal to your fellow countrymen—“

“I have nothing to tell you,” interrupted Thor. “I am Sigurd Thorsen, I didn’t have a transmitter, and I don’t know anything.”

“Well…” Loki took a moment to look at Thor contemplatively. “As you wish. But I’m afraid that in this case, I will have to use the 'enhanced' interrogation methods. I am genuinely sorry, but you leave me no choice.”

Thor didn’t say anything. Loki stood up and snapped his fingers. The guards stepped forward and hoisted Thor off the chair. He turned out to be very tall, taller than Loki, who was usually proud of his height, and even taller than the guards. 

Thor was dragged to the armchair, his hand placed and securely fixed in the device. One of the guards clamped Thor’s finger, tightened the bolts, then looked at Loki for further instructions. Loki nodded. He preferred leaving the dirty work to the others. Didn’t like staining the uniform.

The guard took the pliers, adjusted the position and pulled.

Thor jerked, biting hard on the bottom lip. The bloody, pulled-out fingernail laid on the wooden surface. Blood poured from the mangled finger. Thor’s face stayed impassive, even the colour hadn’t drained from it. Loki was impressed. He’d seen people faint after the first pulled nail, or even soil their pants. Healthy, grown men.

The guard applied the pliers to the next nail, pulled abruptly. Thor flinched again. He was sucking the air in through his nostrils, sweat glistening on his skin, but kept silent. Blood was streaming down his fingers. The guard clicked with the pliers a few times, adjusted the bloodied hand and applied the instrument for the third time. He pulled, but the pliers slipped. Thor jerked and bit through his lip, his eyes faded, went almost white. The guard swore, fiddled with the pliers, then pulled, and the third fingernail fell on the table.

“That’s enough.” Loki realised right away that it was a waste of time. Even if they extracted all the fingernails from this bastard, it wasn’t going to get them anywhere. He snapped his fingers again, and the guards removed Thor from the armchair, making him stand in the centre of the interrogation room. Loki stared at the fresh blood, breathing in the stagnant, putrid air of the torture chamber. As always, he felt a slight arousal at the sight of blood. 

Loki put on thick leather gloves, approached Thor, stopped in front of him. Those blue eyes challenged and mocked him. They all had that look at the beginning, but it wasn’t long before it gave way to hatred or, more often, pleading and animal fear.

Loki abruptly punched him in the pit of the stomach, on the exhale, so as to inflict maximum pain. Thor flinched, jerked, swayed, leaning forward a little, but managed to stay on his feet. 

“Your stoicism is impressive, bravo!” Loki smiled pleasantly and punched Thor in the liver with full force. Thor grunted, his face suddenly turning white, sweat streaming from his temples, knees jerking. He curled on himself, but managed to stay on his feet again, even though his shoulders were shaking and his lips trembled. 

“Haven’t changed your mind?” enquired Loki. He studied his gloves with a bored expression. The leather surface was still intact. 

“Burn in hell, together with your Führer, fascist rat!” wheezed Thor. “You’re all gonna end up on the gallows, shame it won’t be me who put you there!”

Loki’s face contorted. In 1944 the events were unfolding in a way that it could easily end up in line with Thor’s prediction. The Soviet and Allied armies were closing in, and the black curtain of panic and despair was enveloping the Third Reich.

Loki pressed his lips into a tight line and walked back to the desk. He pulled out a heavy cane with a metal tip and returned to the prisoner, took a swing, and the first blow across the shoulders sent Thor to the floor.

Loki worked unhurriedly, methodically, thoroughly. Thor kept silent, only wheezed and spat out blood. After two blows to his face that broke his nose and turned his lips into a bloody mess, Thor started hiding it. As a result, everything else suffered. Loki was livid, the blows rained down on the writhing prisoner. 

“Well?” Loki abruptly stopped, panting and wiping the sweat. “Have you changed your mind yet?”

“Fucking Nazi scum,” groaned Thor, curled on the floor, his face mutilated to the point of being completely unrecognisable. “You’ll be hanging from a lamp post before you know it! Together with your Führer!”

“Son of a bitch!” hissed Loki, leaning down and landing his boot at Thor’s spleen. “Red piece of shit! Traitor of the Aryan race! You could have joined us, instead - you chose the communists! We will cleanse the world from this Red pathogen, and I will prove it to your severed head, sitting in a jar!

Loki took a swing and brought the cane down Thor’s head. Thor jerked and went quiet. There was the sudden smell of ammonia.

“Take _it_ out,” said Loki with disgust throwing aside the cane and pulling off his gloves. The right glove was torn, there was blood and some teeth fragments stuck to it. “Back to the cell. Tomorrow evening — to me again. To my office.”

The guards pulled the unconscious body up by the arms and dragged it down the corridor.

***  
That evening, during a game of cards, Loki winced at the pain in his right hand — he’d managed to split the knuckles even through the gloves. Besides, he couldn’t get the Norwegian communist out of his head. After all, he had his sexual preferences, and certain things were to him like a red rag to a bull. Tall, muscular, blond men with regular features had always fascinated him. And he had a special kink for blue eyes. When Loki joined the Gestapo fourteen years ago, he found himself in heaven, surrounded by the blond-haired, blue-eyed creatures. And when his career took off, he immediately got himself a secretary and an orderly. Both were blue-eyed blondes, but the secretary was young and delicate, like an elf captured by the nets, and the orderly — huge and powerful, like an Ancient Germanic warrior. Loki fucked both and enjoyed them equally. Sometimes Loki invited friends over so that they could all fuck the two blondes. He especially enjoyed sharing around the hopelessly drunk secretary, with all his crying and moaning which was so endearing. Even watching it was arousing. 

And now there was this Norwegian demi-god. It is as if he came straight out of Laufeyson’s innermost fantasies. Loki drank schnapps, smoked slim cigarettes and squinted at the light, imagining all the things he could do with Thor in private — if Thor was an actual person — and not a piece of shit that betrayed the purity of the race and the ideals of the Aryan Renaissance. Loki felt his anger surging.

He ordered his secretary to serve him some cocaine. The young man came back with a powder scattered across a piece of paper and a thin tube. Loki snorted the drug with a well-practiced move and pinched his nostrils. The world around him was changing, and inside him — the anger was growing into white-hot rage.

*** 

Thor is lying down on the putrid straw, just one of the haggard semi-corpses that fill the cell. Everything hurts, throbs, twitches. His fingers are swollen, bloated, numb. He can’t feel his lips. His right eye is so bunged up, he can’t see anything with it. Thirst scrapes at his throat. His head feels as if it is girded with a tight lead band. He doesn’t know how long he’s been like this. He remembers the torture, the handsome face of the officer in the grey uniform, his thin lips with their serpent smile, his bright green eyes. The scalding pain of the blows. 

Thor is lying down, realising that his life will end here — on the floor of the interrogation room or on the rotten straw of the cell. Just twenty-seven years old, out of which the last four he has spent risking his life, daily. The grand finale. 

The door opens, two guards armed with the submachine guns walk in. A heavy boot kicks Thor in the ribs, harsh voice ordering him to get up and walk. Thor somehow manages to get up and walk to where the muzzle of the gun is nudging him to. He doesn’t care anymore, he grinds his teeth and hopes that it will all be over soon. He just needs to hold on for a little bit longer and then — eternal rest. Just hold on for a little longer. He has to. He must not break. 

Loki is sitting in his office, his grey service jacket is unbuttoned, as is his shirt, exposing the white skin of his bare chest. His peaked cap is carelessly thrown onto the desk. Loki smokes a slim cigarette from a long black cigarette holder. There is a tray with food and alcohol on the desk in front of him.

The guards bring Thor in, forcing him to sit in the chair by the desk again. His hands are still cuffed. Loki casually gestures to the guards, and they leave the room, closing the door behind them. Loki takes a long drag on his cigarette and looks at Thor. His blond hair is dull and matted. His face is a horrible sight, his clothes stink. But the single blue eye regards him with calm confidence. 

“Please, help yourself,” Loki offers pleasantly, pushing the tray towards the prisoner. He blows out the smoke and gives Thor a strange drunken look. 

Thor keeps silent, trying to find the catch. He hesitantly eyes the tray. Loki knows that Thor hasn’t been fed since he arrived at the prison, which was two days ago. He knows that Thor is thirsty, that the hunger is ripping him up inside, clawing at his guts, driving him mad. 

“Come now, there is nothing to be afraid of.” Loki smiles as he takes another drag. “I am merely offering you food. And why not? Perhaps, it will help us to achieve some understanding. If not — you will be returned to your cell. Please, eat.”

Thor extends his shaking hands, takes a shot of schnapps and downs it in one go. Loki sees the nailless fingers — black, with the crust of dried blood. His gaze wanders over Thor, scrutinising, noting down every detail. Loki reaches out and breaks off a piece of bread for himself, tops it with salami, starts eating. Thor swallows hungrily, as the saliva appears on his lips. 

“Go ahead,” chews Loki, winking at Thor, “it’s just a dinner with pleasant company. Nothing to worry about.”

And Thor breaks. He starts eating. He is trying to contain himself, but the hunger erases all his inhibitions. Thor eats, with his eyes screwed shut, almost choking in his haste. 

Loki leans back in his chair, watches Thor. Lights a new cigarette. Squints. 

The tray is empty. So is the bottle. Thor is drunk. He braces his hands on the desk, looks at Loki with a heavy, bleary gaze. 

“Let’s get back to our little problem,” says Loki. He picks up a riding crop from the desk and uses it to lift Thor’s chin up. He looks Thor in the eye and smiles. “Look at yourself. You are young, you have your whole life ahead of you. Refusal to cooperate is a death sentence. A shallow grave in the frozen ground. Is that what you really want? Wouldn’t it be a shame for you to part with this world? The beautiful women, the sun, a light breeze from the sea…”

“No,” says Thor gravely, and Loki can see the all too familiar expression of pure animal hatred on his face. “I choose death.”

“Silly,” chuckles Loki. “And pointless. Your friends will be executed either way. We have apprehended twenty people during this operation. Resistance will be crushed. You won’t achieve anything with your pointless sacrifice.” 

“You are all going to be hanged in the streets of Berlin,” laughs utterly drunk Thor. “For that, I am prepared to die ten times over. I’ll see you in hell, you son of a bitch. I hope you burn in everlasting fire! Son of a bitch! Nazi bastard! Murderer! Piece of shit! I would strangle you with my bare hands if not for these shackles, wring your neck! Or maybe you enjoy being choked? Pervert! You’re all sick bastards in here, I knew it from the start that there was something wrong with you! There’s a special place in hell for scum like you. You are nothing — a coward, a piece of shit who gets off on torturing defenceless people, fuck you!”

“There is no Hell.” Loki’s lips pressed into a cold smile, his face white with anger. Inside — instead of blood — there is a boiling rage flowing through his veins. A rage that needs a release. 

“You are already in Hell, Thor. And in _this_ Hell — I reign supreme.”

Loki extinguishes the cigarette and calls out for his orderly, who comes in immediately. Loki gives several orders and watches Thor being dragged out of the room. 

Thor is furious — alcohol is buzzing in his ears, causing a wave of hatred, giving him an illusion of invincibility. Thor roars and spits out profanities, and tries to fight them off with everything he’s got. They don’t beat him, they drag him down the corridor and into the shower. His clothes are ripped off him. The water is pouring from above. Wet and bloodied, Thor is curled on the floor. Pink-tinged streams run down his body and the dirty floor tiles turn red. 

The orderly takes a washcloth, fists his hand in Thor’s hair, scrubs him. Thor is choking on water; all his strength has left him and he can barely resist. It feels like he is blacking out — there are still some sensations left, but he can hardly move his body. 

He comes back to his senses in a different room. He is stretched on a bed, face down. Hands and feet cuffed to the ends of the bed. Thor tugs on the restraints, but he doesn’t have the strength, and all he can do is writhe helplessly. His head clears a little and he realises that he is wet and stark naked. 

“Voluntary cooperation will allow you to save your life,” says a familiar voice.

Loki is sitting, splayed across the chair, smoking and smiling. This smile sends shivers down Thor’s spine. Loki is blind drunk and very angry. His face is corpse-white, his eyes empty, his black hair dishevelled.

“This is the last time I am offering you your life and freedom.” Loki spits on the floor. “I’m done wasting my time with you.”

“Go to Hell,” rasps Thor.

Loki chuckles and puts down the cigarette holder. He gets up and starts undressing. Only now Thor realises. He thrashes on the bed, but can’t break the cuffs. Loki is fully naked, and Thor can see his arousal. Loki picks up a thick chain, swings it and a sharp pain stings across Thor’s back. A thick red welt swells on his skin. Loki licks his lips, tosses the chain away. He climbs onto the bed and lies on top of Thor. Thor is writhing underneath, trying to kick Loki off. 

“If you are not going to lay still,” whispers Loki in his ear. “I am going to call the soldiers, they will take you back to the cell and stretch you out on the floor. And I will fuck you there for everyone to see. Or, perhaps, I will order them to fuck you for my viewing pleasure.”

A strong hand closes around Thor’s throat, the other gently rubbing his buttock. Thor shuts his eyes, breathes heavily and doesn’t move. 

“Excellent,” whispers Loki, his touches growing more insistent. His hands trail over Thor’s body, going to the innermost places. Loki gets off the bed, but then almost immediately comes back and settles between Thor’s spread legs. Thor flinches feeling the slicked finger touching his anus. Careful, gentle touches.

“I don’t expect you’ll be able to come,” says Loki, massaging his entrance with circular movements, “but I’d prefer not to tear you up either. I don’t like having blood all over my dick. So I suggest that you at least try to relax. It’ll make it easier for you.”

His fingers slightly part the edges of Thor’s entrance. Thor jerks. It feels like a slow death from poisoning — Loki’s gentle fingers send sweet shivers down his body, but the ugliness of the situation makes him gag. 

Loki pushes his finger inside. He is drunk, and it is rather abrupt. Thor jerks again. Loki doesn’t pay attention and continues inserting the finger, then the second one. Thor hears the wet sounds and nearly throws us. He grits his teeth and tells himself — persuades himself — that he is not there. This is easier to endure than pain and torture. Less chance to break. The shame, the humiliation — it’s all bearable, they can fuck him, but he will not break, will not betray his people. The third finger is pushed in, and Loki twists all three. The edges of Thor’s hole stretch and he feels full inside. Thor twitches his arse, instinctively trying to squirm away from the persistent fingers that are brazenly working his tight opening. 

Loki holds him by the thigh, fixing him in place, and slightly spreads the fingers inside. Everything hurts, aches. Thor drops his head onto the bed, his shoulders trembling. His bites through his lips again, tasting blood in his mouth. The fingers slide out of his backside, Loki leans his weight onto him, surrounding him in the stench of alcohol and cigarettes, and then — pain. Hellish pain. Thor’s mouth fills with bile, as he gags and heaves into the covers. 

Loki is drunk, he is impatient, rough, brutal. His cock keeps slipping out. Loki curses through his teeth and ruthlessly pushes it into Thor’s reddened hole again and again. Sometimes, he can’t get it in straight away, and the hard cock pushes into Thor’s perineum, pressing against the delicate skin. Tears are burning in Thor’s eyes, the saliva, pink with blood, smeared on the pillow. 

Loki pulls him by the hair, bites his neck. Breathes into his ear. Doesn’t let him forget where he is, calls him by his name.

“Are you enjoying it? How do you, Thor Odinson, like being a Nazi whore? Did you know that I only fuck pureblood Aryan boys? The ones like you? You should feel honoured. Come on, scream for me. Like that, do you like it? What about that? That?!”

Thor can’t hold it anymore. He screams into the pillow, rasps, yells, howls, listening with disgust how his voice breaks in tune with the rough rhythmical thrusts. Finally, Loki stills and lets out a short groan. 

It takes Thor some time to realise that it’s over. His arse aches, his rim stings. Loki gets off him, slides from the bed and goes to the table. He drinks water straight from a pitcher, wipes off the sweat. 

“Did you enjoy it?” Loki enquires, turning back to Thor. “I tried my best.”

Thor lies with his face pressed into the pillow and tries not to think about pain. His backside is on fire, it aches, pulsates. The stretched muscles convulse, trying to contract. It is wet and slimy inside. For some reason, it is this wetness dripping down his groin that disgusts him the most, out of everything that happened to Thor in this bed. 

Loki puts on a warm bathrobe and whistles. The door opens and the orderly walks in, followed by the two guards.

“Back to his cell,” Loki barks and lights up a cigarette again. His cool green eyes turn toward the window, toward the distant mountains. He squints, sated, and thinks that it would be good to go for a hunt sometime soon. 

*** 

Time doesn’t exist in the windowless cell. The only things that exist are pain and despair. Someone is screaming, someone is going insane and tries to kick out the door. Someone is crying, someone is praying. Some bang their heads on the stone walls or try to scratch on them the curses for their tormentors and the farewell notes to their loved ones with their fingernails. The dark, cold room smells of blood, urine, excrement. It smells of unwashed bodies and fear.

Thor is lying face down on the rotten straw. He doesn’t know how long he’s been there. They seem to have forgotten about him. The others are being dragged out for questioning or taken away for good. Somewhere behind the wall, there are gut-wrenching screams. And gunshots — abrupt, short, seldom. 

They haven’t come for him since that night. He has already received half-baked bread and water four times. His backside doesn’t hurt anymore. The swelling has eased off his face, and he can feel his lips again. Only his fingers throb more than before, and a dull constant pain has settled between his ribs, where they have met a leather-clad fist. Probably a broken rib, thinks Thor. He tries not to listen to the screams and the gunshots, all his strength used to fight the pain. He doesn’t feel the coldness of the stone floor. Doesn’t feel shame, doesn’t regret his life. Everything seems to have moved aside, and all that is left is the pain between his ribs and the coolness of the stone under his cheek. 

The tepid water tastes like nectar. Thor drinks it slowly, savouring every mouthful. Only now does he realise how wonderful life is. Thor thinks about all the things he wanted to do, but never did, and now never will, and weeps silently, pressing his face into the putrid straw. 

There is just one thought that stays bright and clear in his mind — must not break. Must not talk. Must not betray. Have to hold on. After all, death is not that bad. There will be no more pain. Just the impact of a bullet against his head. And then — silence.

Thor sees the rounded toes of heavy boots in front of his face. He doesn’t immediately realise that he is being hoisted up and dragged somewhere. He can’t walk on his own, can’t shuffle his bare, cold-numbed feet fast enough.

He is brought into the now familiar interrogation room and placed in the chair. Thor sits there, struggling to stay upright and not collapse to the floor. Steps resonate behind him. Loki approaches the desk. He is wearing a black leather trench coat with a shoulder belt over it. The glossy peak of his cap is wet. It must be raining out there, on the outside. Raindrops shimmer faintly on the trench coat.

Loki takes off the cap, places it on the desk, removes the heavy trench coat and tosses it at the orderly. He sits down opposite Thor, crosses his legs, puts one hand to his mouth, strokes his cheeks in contemplation. He looks at Thor.

“Thor, are you ready to cooperate?” Loki asks.

Thor looks him directly in the eye. He can see his own reflection in the wide green eyes. He doesn’t recognise himself in the mangled semi-corpse that reflects back at him.

“I. Have. Nothing. To tell. You,” says Thor slowly, separating every word. 

Loki throws his hand over his eyes. Rubs the bridge of his nose. An almost unnoticeable head motion and there they are — alone again.

“You were due to be executed yesterday,” casually informs him Loki, still rubbing the bridge of his nose. His facial expression belongs to someone suffering from a toothache. 

Thor keeps silent, feeling an icy shiver going down his spine.

“You’ve been here for a week, refusing to cooperate. I had to put down in the report that you were interrogated three times, using the 'enhanced' interrogation methods.” Loki leans back in his chair and lights up a cigarette with the click of a lighter. He doesn’t look at Thor. He blows out smoke and watches the rings go up towards the ceiling. Thor notices that in this light Loki’s eyes are a pure emerald colour. 

“We don’t keep those who refuse to cooperate for longer than a week,” continues Loki. “Especially since your radio operator started talking. He told us everything.”

“Bastards,” says Thor. “Fuck you all.”

Loki chuckles and takes a long drag. He moves his gaze back to Thor.

“Fucking bastard,” repeats Thor. “You’ll answer for this in Hell. Go on! Shoot me! Kill me! Right now! You think I will fall for your provocation?”

Loki sneers and takes a file out of the drawer. He opens it and places it on the desk in front of Thor. Nods at it. 

Thor lowers his eyes and his heart stops — it is the transcript of Thorstein Olafsson’s interrogation. The boy talked. And Thor can’t even hate him. There is a photo of Thorstein after the interrogation. Thor’s vision greys out.

Loki gets up from the desk, opens his holster, takes out the pistol. Moves to stand behind Thor’s back and puts the muzzle to his temple. Presses in. The hard cold metal pushes against his skull. They both breathe raggedly. Loki is silent, but Thor suddenly feels the fingers tracing over his hair, over his neck. They squeeze lightly. 

“You haven’t got a single chance left to get out of this alive,” whispers Loki, caressing his neck. His breath tickles the skin at the temple, where the muzzle of the gun is pressing in.

“Do it.” Thor closes his eyes. He feels nauseous again. There is an empty buzz in his head. And a pulsating hatred in his heart. And there is a relief. This is it. He’s done it, he didn’t break. 

The gunshot sound is deafening.

Thor sits frozen in place, then slowly opens his eyes. Turns his head and stares in shock at the laughing Loki. He feels cold with terror again. The green eyes burn with madness, and the laughing sounds more like the whimpering of a sick animal. Loki shoots few more times — at the floor, at the walls. Thor flinches with every shot. Loki keeps laughing. 

“I’ve just killed you,” Loki sobs with laughter, lowering his gun. 

Thor opens his mouth to say something, but Loki hits him with full force with the pistol grip.

“Shut up!” hisses Loki. “Shut your rotten mouth, damn piece of shit.”

*** 

Thor is in a car, with a sack over his head and his hands cuffed. Thor feels how his thigh presses into someone’s sharp knee. His mouth is full of blood, it drips slowly down onto his chest. The car comes to a stop, the doors slam. Thor is being led somewhere, and not into the forest, not against the wall, but into a house. The sack is removed, and Thor sees a clean, modestly decorated room. Metal bars in the windows. On the windowsill — a basin filled with water, a pitcher, a folded towel. On the table, covered with a white cloth — a meal. Thor turns around, his eyes lock with Loki’s. Thor doesn’t understand what is going on.

“Be quiet,” says Loki gravely. 

“Where am I?” asks Thor.

“At my house.” Loki curls his lips. “My orderly is behind the door. He is an ex-sniper, he knows how to shoot. Keep that in mind.”

The door slams shut and the key turns in the lock. Thor stands there, not understanding, not believing. He walks across the room, checks everything. Touches the water in the basin — still warm. There is a pink soap bar atop the towel. It feels like a miracle — real soap and warm water. It can’t be true. And Thor sobs, pressing his nose into the towel that smells of cleanness and washing powder. Salty tears crawl down his cheeks. He doesn’t know what to do. 

*** 

The bed is soft, like his mother’s hands. Thor is lying down, his eyes closed, savouring the warmth and comfort with every cell of his body. A doctor came over that evening. He set back the dislocations, said that the rib is cracked, but not broken, cleaned his fingers and all the sores and wounds, injected him with antibiotics and painkillers. A languor passed over his body. Being clean is magical. His thoughts flounder, Thor tries to think about escaping, but his eyes droop, and his brain goes dull. 

Behind the door, there is drunken shouting, laughter, sounds of the doors being slammed. Banging, clattering, swearing. Thor sits up on the bed, trying to figure out what is happening behind the door. Just like that — he has only just returned from the dead, and immediately the fear creeps back in again. 

The door flies open, and Loki falls through it. He is blind drunk. He stinks of alcohol, cigarettes and — the interrogation room.

Loki slumps into the chair, rubs his temples. There is a pistol in his hand. He presses the heels of his hands to his eyelids, massaging his eyes. 

“Haven’t slept for two days,” mutters Loki. Then throws back his head and looks at Thor. His gaze changes a little, becoming slightly more focused. 

“Fra-a-anz!” yells Loki.

A trembling secretary comes in, trying not to show just how terrified he is. He places the bottles and shot glasses on the table, lays out the paper, sets down a small box. Quietly leaves the room.

“Drink, you son of a bitch.” Loki aims the gun at Thor. “Now! Get up and drink, or I will put a bullet through your head! Or whatever I end up hitting.” Loki is laughing hysterically again.

Thor gets off the bed, fills the shot glass, smells it — pure surgical spirit.

“Drink!” hisses Loki and his eyes fill with rage. 

Thor downs the shot in one go. His throat stings, his eyes water.

“Another!” demands Loki. “From the bottle! Drink!”

Thor wants to punch him, but Loki’s white manicured finger stays on the trigger. Thor is not afraid of the headshot, he is afraid Loki will miss — then back to the interrogation room, prison, torture.

He drinks the spirit from the bottle. He is drunk before he even finishes it. He sets the empty bottle onto the table. Everything is swimming in front of his eyes, the ceiling spins, as if in a dance.

“We were mopping up the prison today,” Loki lowers the gun. Only now Thor notices how gaunt his face is. The soiled collar of his shirt, stains and splatters on his jacket. 

“Seventeen cells, seventeen mass executions.” Loki sways on the chair, covering his face with his hands. “Those fucking morons from SS were so high, they couldn’t even hit a back of a head. Fucking shit, this fucking job… I had to—“ Loki is shouting, raising his gun again and his eyes are scary, empty, round, white. “I had to do it myself today. Damn heads and necks, they were never-ending, never-ending.”

Loki drops his head to his knees and sobs. His shoulders trembling. He sways in the chair and groans. “Damn idiots, how hard can it be to hit a back of a head from five steps away? Butchers, fucking morons, I had to force the guards to do the executions because of them, they kept missing, it was a slaughter, not an execution, a disgrace, I couldn’t — do you understand? — I couldn’t do it cleanly. Seventeen cells, I stopped counting, I had to reload the gun three times. Fuck, fuck, fuck! It shouldn’t have been this way. That’s not how it started, it shouldn’t have happened.” 

Loki raises his contorted, red, wet from tears face, looks at Thor, yells, “Do you know the Allied Forces are already in Italy? Do you know what that means? It’s over! Do you know that Führer had run out of people in his inner circle to execute? How many of them are already rotting in the ground for opening their mouth at the wrong time! That Führer is mobilising women and children to defend Berlin? That many choose to put the gun to their own heads. This is the end…”

Loki hides his face in his hands again and sways on the chair. Thor stands there, blinking at him, the drunkenness enveloping him. 

Loki gets up from the chair, walks to the table, opens the small box with his shaking hands and scatters the white powder on the table. Snorts it, inhaling it through his elegant nostrils. He hurries, pinches his nose. His service jacket is covered with the weightless white dust.

“Snort!” The muzzle of the gun stares Thor in the forehead. “Snort, let’s celebrate your victory, Herr Communist. Well?!”

Thor leans over the table, pinches one nostril and inhales the cocaine. Three long drags. Euphoria is washing over his chest.

“You are all going to die,” laughs Thor. He wants to plug the muzzle of the gun with his finger. It is just so funny. Thor doubles on himself and laughs, ignoring the tears sliding down his cheeks. Loki is also laughing, taking a gulp straight from the bottle.

“Damn it all, I’m having fun tonight!” Loki throws back his head and waltzes around the room with his hands wide open. “Tonight, everything is allowed. Burn in Hell, mein Führer! If it was me in his place… O-oh, yes, I would’ve made a great Führer, don’t you think?”

Loki stuffs his hand behind the lapel of his jacket and pulls a ferocious face. His nose and the upper lip are covered in thick layer of white dust, just like a moustache. Thor is bursting with laughter — it is so funny, it defies description.

“Are you going to hang me from a lamp post, you damn communist?” Loki arches his eyebrow and doubles over laughing.

“Yes, mein Führer!” Thor extends his hand, saluting. “Heil! Here’s to the fall of the Reich! You are all going to Hell!”

“Come on, say that again.” Loki is wiping the tears with his hands.

“Yes, mein Führer!” shouts Thor.

The room spins, the walls are blooming with flowers and blood is dripping from the ceiling. They both end up in bed, both naked for some reason. Loki’s black hair is scattered across the white pillowcase, his pale, bloodless face merging into its whiteness. Empty eyes stare at the ceiling.

“Blood,” whispers Loki, his pupils wide with terror. “There is blood everywhere, Thor. It’s dripping on my face. When I walk, it’s sloshing under my feet. Thor, I used to take music lessons, my teacher praised my hands. I saw her hanging from a crossbar — she was hiding her pupils. Children. Thor, she was hiding children, so they wouldn’t send them to a concentration camp. I knew that they would hang her — my friends did it. Wipe this blood off my face, please. Wipe it off!”

And Thor watches the white pillowcase under Loki’s head turn red, soaking with thick, dark blood.

“Why did you bring me here?” asks Thor, his legs twining with Loki’s. This is a dream, in a dream everything is allowed. Thor knows that they have both died and met in Hell. In Hell, everything is allowed, and Thor parts his legs slightly, allowing Loki to enter him.

“Because it’s over,” whispers Loki into his lips, trembling, closing his eyes. “I want to forget. With you, I can forget everything.”

He traces his open palm over Thor’s face. They kiss, and Thor doesn’t feel hatred, doesn’t feel bitterness — in Hell, everything is allowed. Loki’s lips are sweeter than a girl’s lips, and the thrusts inside him bring the blazing, sweltering arousal. It is a perversion, a sickness, but that is precisely what is supposed to happen in Hell. So they roll around the bed, biting each other, kissing, clinging to each other, and Thor wants more pain, more of the cock thrusting into him, more kisses and ragged whispering. He also wants to forget. And Loki makes him forget everything — Thor comes, arching beneath Loki, impaling himself onto his hot shaft, spreading his legs wide and sinking his teeth into the bare white shoulder. 

*** 

Morning brings shame and a lingering ache in his backside. Thor wants to kill himself. On the side of the bed where Loki’s slept, there is just a crumpled sheet and his smell. Thor remembers the executions and goes white. He darts for the basin and vomits, again and again. Hands shaking, his head is about to explode. Thor doesn’t drink and has never taken drugs in his life, and now he feels beyond awful, he just wants to lie down and die.

He spends all day in bed, imagining what it would be like to break Loki’s neck with his bare hands. He had an opportunity yesterday, he could have done anything yesterday and instead… Thor groans, squeezing his head between his hands, hating himself, hating Loki. 

They bring him food. The doctor comes again and examines Thor under the orderly’s dark stare. A gun is aimed at his head. The orderly’s whole demeanour says just give me a reason, but Thor doesn’t give him a reason. Thor clenches his teeth and swears that he’s not going to miss another opportunity. 

But Loki doesn’t come. He doesn’t come that evening, nor at night, nor the next day. Thor spends three days locked inside, and then the bombardment starts. The missiles rain from the sky and explode with deep, hollow sounds. Thor stares at the burning city through the window, pleading with the skies that the next bomb falls onto this house. But the bomb falls next to it, and the whole building shakes from the blast. Smothering black smoke fills the room. 

Thor realises that he has nothing to lose and kicks the door out. The house is empty. Thor laughs and grabs a warm grey greatcoat, puts it on and cautiously steps outside, into the Apocalypse. 

*** 

Loki, dressed in a dirty, torn, burnt uniform, is walking through the blazing night city. He is swaying. He is drunk again. His cap has gone missing. There are two bullets left in his pistol. He is saving both for himself, in case he misses the first time with his shaking hands. 

The wind stirs his outgrown black hair, his lips are pressed into a dead man’s smile. The way the corpses smile in their coffins, the grimace, the mimic wrinkles, devoid of any emotion. Loki remembers how they were fighting back, how the soldiers were falling around him. How they retreated from the buildings they had been occupying, how the blast from the grenade took away his breath and his consciousness. Remembers the slimy human guts on the dirty pavement, screams of hatred, gunshots and the corpses locked in the final embrace of a hand-to-hand struggle. Once, a stray bullet grazed his cheek; the other time, he barely managed to escape from the running soldiers dressed in British uniforms by hiding in the alleyway. This is the end.

Loki laughs, pulls a flask filled with brandy from his pocket, finishes it and throws the flask away. He walks towards a wide street — a quick death among the flames is better than a rope over the neck and trousers stained with urine and semen. 

The aesthetics seem more important to Loki at this moment than ever before. He has always considered himself to be a connoisseur of beauty and right now the thought of a tongue, grotesquely falling out of a scream-split mouth, of bulging, bloodshot eyes — is unbearable. Bullet-ridden corpses are equally repulsive, but at least it is quick, and away from the gloating stares of the victors. There will be no show. Loki smirks and walks towards the sound of the gunfire.

Suddenly a silent shadow grows behind his back, strong hands roughly grab Loki by the shoulders, wide palm clamps over his mouth. Loki tries to resist, but his head connects with the wall, and he goes limp. His body is dragged down the street and into the cellar of a bombed-out house. 

It is dark, damp, quiet, save for the heavy breathing. Loki runs his fingers across the hand clamped over his mouth. He is tripped and shoved to the floor, onto the broken bricks. Someone heavy pins him down, and suddenly Loki is seared by a celestial, lupine stare. 

“You are alive,” laughs Loki. He extends his dirty hand to touch Thor’s face and gets a hard blow to his face.

“I had to send you down to Hell with my own hands, you bastard,” rasps Thor. “And had I burnt alive, I would’ve risen from the ashes to wring your neck.” 

“Shoot me.” Loki’s smile fades. “Put a bullet in my head. Please. I saved your life. I’ve earned my bullet.”

“Not so fast.” Thor bares his teeth and his lupine, celestial eyes on the soot-blackened face burn with raw hatred. “First, I’ve got a debt to settle, mein Führer. You think I haven’t tortured? Think only you, bastards, know how to break and put against the wall? I’ve got just as much blood on my hands!”

“Oh, I’ve heard enough about your methods,” laughs Loki, but promptly gets another blow to the face. His head jerks, blood shows on the lips.

Thor rips Loki’s trousers, pulls them down, spins Loki to the side. His boots won’t let his trousers to be pulled off completely, but Thor doesn’t care. He probes tight entrance and pins Loki with his weight. Loki lies still, with his eyes closed. Thor spits in his hand, rubs it into the hole, generously spits onto his own cock. He pushes inside, into the hot, sweltering tightness, eyes fixed on Loki’s face. The first penetration must be unbearably painful. Thor is rough, he thrusts all the way in and shoves his hips at the end. But Loki’s face is like a marble mask, expressionless, only his slightly parted thin lips quiver a little. 

“Look at me,” hisses Thor, shaking Loki by the neck. “Open your eyes and look at me, or, I swear, I’ll throttle you!”

Loki slowly opens his eyes, and there is no fear, no pain, no hatred, no shame in them — just endless fatigue. 

“Come on,” whispers Loki, looking at Thor like a school boy looks at his first love. His eyes are almost transparent, as if filled with sunlight. “I want to forget…”

Thor is moving inside Loki, squeezing his throat with his muscular hand. Sweat prickles at his eyes. In his head — the suns are exploding, and comets are rushing by. Loki is lying half-turned to his side, his hands wrapped around Thor’s shoulders. Lips curling from pain and pleasure. And Thor forgets the battle around them, the war and the burning buildings. Forgets that the Allies are advancing in the city. Forgets that it’s over, and he just needs to tighten his hold on the strong neck and watch the green eyes slowly go glassy, life fading from them, and the body jerk in the last-ditch attempt to stave off the enveloping darkness and cold…

And at this very moment, Loki smiles at him and Thor’s cock is suddenly squeezed by pulsating inner walls. The world explodes around Thor, and he is hit by the most intense, most powerful, longest orgasm of his life.

For some time, they just breathe into each other’s lips, relishing the sweet aftershocks, then Loki swallows and says, “Well, you’ve had your revenge. Now — shoot me.”

“Not a chance.” Thor jolts him by the throat. “I’m gonna turn you in. They’ll string you up in the square.”

Loki watches him silently, and Thor can still feel his hole convulsing, can feel how warm and silky and tight Loki is inside.

“I saved your life,” mumbles Loki. “You owe me a headshot — the one I spared you from.”

“Yeah, is there anything else you think I owe you?” hisses Thor against his lips, shaking him by the neck again.

“A kiss,” whispers Loki and his eyes light up for a moment. “I kissed you on the lips, while you were sleeping at my house. The sun was dancing on your eyelashes, the pillow left sleep lines on your cheek.”

Thor freezes. His stomach twists and the ache echoes in his chest. Thor lightly presses his lips to the thin, pale lips and lets his eyes close.

This time the kiss tastes of soot. Loki parts his lips, letting in Thor’s smooth, wet tongue. Thor is kissing him and suddenly remembers how in spring, the wind brings the scent of heather and flowers. He strokes Loki’s body, exploring, trying to memorise every part of it, and he can’t bring himself to stop.

“They’re gonna kill you anyway.” Thor finally breaks the kiss and stares again into the beautiful, gaunt face. “There is nothing I can do for you.”

“They’re going to kill you too.” Loki licks his lips. “You are listed as executed. I was the one responsible for all the records. I put you on the list. So for all intents and purposes — you are dead. If you show up now, your people will think you’ve turned coats.”

“You son of a bitch…” Thor tightens his grip again.

Loki grabs at his palm with both hands and laughs, his eyes gleaming. “I bought a place on the American warship, set for Brazil,” Loki rushes. “They were negotiating with me and I agreed to trade information in exchange for the place. We can escape together. We just need to get to the coast.”

“But there is only one place—” Thor lets go of Loki’s throat.

“Trust me, I’ve got a lot more to tell them,” stops him Loki. “Enough for two. Plus — the diamonds.”

“What diamonds?” Thor gapes at him.

“A bribe — back in 1941 — sewn into the canvas waistband that’s always on me.” Loki takes Thor’s hand and places it on the small of his back. “We get to the coast, then, by sea, to Kristiansand. There we can board the ship. They are waiting for me.” 

Thor sits back on his knees, his head is on fire, his thoughts are swarming around.

“After the war ends they are going to call you on all your sins,” says Loki. “You’ve been an intelligence operative, you know how this works — they are never going to let any of us go. So your bullet can find you at any moment. In Brazil, we can have a fresh start. Together. The sea, the breeze, a house with the large windows. A piano in the living room.”

“And the nightmares…” breathes out Thor.

“Yes, and the nightmares.” Loki’s eyes go dull again. “But better a life with nightmares than a bullet to the back of the head.”

Thor helps him to get up. They somehow manage to loop the ripped service trousers with the belt. Loki winces, rubs his arse with his hand.

“Let’s go to the garage. I’ve got keys from a civilian car — was preparing it for this.”

Thor hesitates, then exits first. They manage to reach the garage safely, and from there follow the meandering back alleys out of the blazing, battle-torn city.

***

Thor is sitting on a patio, dressed in a white linen shirt and matching trousers. A light breeze is stirring his blond hair. His shirt is open — the evening cool is descending from the mountains, but he is still hot. He is drinking ice wine from a foggy glass and watches Loki.

Loki is reclining on a wicker chaise — a whiskey glass in one hand, a long cigarette in another. He is smoking, slowly, his gaze fixed on the sunset-tinged peaks. His face is serene, but there is a sadness in his eyes that bleeds through more and more with each passing day. Hopelessness, for which there is no medicine. 

Thor thinks about the time they first stepped ashore in this land. They spent two weeks cramped in a tiny dark cabin with only one cot for the two of them. Stale, mouldy bread, tea mixed with bad rum, insipid tinned meat — a Soviet variety — that’s all the food that they had.

For the whole two weeks, they fucked like madmen. Like wild beasts in heat. The Third Reich, gripped by the final fit of hysterics, victorious Europe and the red banners rising above Germany — were all left behind. Ahead of them laid South America and the unknown.

They tried every position imaginable, told each other things one can neither forget, nor repeat. Thor learned what Loki tasted of, learned how two people can scream, climaxing together, learned how to ask and to give.

Filthy, almost insane, drunk, they came ashore. It turned out to be Argentina, rather than Brazil, but they didn’t care — finally they were free, and they were safe, and there was a clear blue sky above them.

Loki found those who agreed to help. Those who had escaped from the war earlier. They moved to a small town, bought a beautiful house with the huge windows from which they could see the mountains and the ocean. 

During the next four months of their life together, they haven’t touched each other. All at once it just stopped. They would occasionally discuss domestic matters, but couldn’t bring themselves to look each other in the eye. 

Gradually the fragile ice wall between them began to crack. They could face one another again. They gingerly started talking — a little about everything. In the evenings, they would stay on the patio or in the living room. Loki would play the piano, his lashes down, his long slender fingers fluttering over the keys. And Thor would listen, while the memories of war, pain and fire twirled in his head like a hellish kaleidoscope. 

At first Loki was in some kind of daze, as if constantly sleepwalking. Then, he seemed to come to life again, started taking interest in things, wanted to find something to do. 

Thor, on the other hand, quickly found himself an occupation. He renewed old connections, started a smuggling operation, obtained fake American papers for the both of them.

Then, about a week ago, something came over Loki. He would silently stare into nothing, picking through his long black hair that had now grown past his shoulders, spending his entire days sitting on the patio, chain-smoking and drinking hard liquor.

It was the same again today. 

Thor watched him, and couldn’t help marvelling at his chiselled profile, his thin lips, the unusual colour of his eyes and a faint blush on his otherwise white face. For a while now, Thor had noticed that he would often stare at Loki, when the other wasn’t looking. There was this new, unfamiliar feeling growing in his chest, smouldering, like a fire, hidden under a layer of peat.

“They will find us anyway,” said Loki, blowing out a puff of smoke and watching bizarre pattern go up.

“They won’t,” answered Thor. “I’ve talked to someone who is recruiting for the US Intelligence. After Germany capitulates, there will be a different kind of war — the world will get divided — and in this new world, we can find a place for ourselves. Both of us.”

“No.” Loki slowly shook his head. “I am a Nazi criminal, I could never wash it off. I will spend the rest of my days sitting in this shithole, waiting for the headshot. You should have killed me back in Norway. The world turned out to be so small…” Loki threw a hand over his face and started laughing, quietly. 

Thor listened, realising that Loki was having a break-down. A fit of hysterics. He got up and walked to stand over Loki, putting a hand on his shoulder. Loki slipped from the chaise and clutched at Thor’s leg, pressing his cheek into his knee. 

“They will find us,” Loki mumbled, his shoulders shaking. “Shoot me, before it’s too late. I want it to be you. Not them, not the strangers.”

“I’ve always wanted to ask,” slowly said Thor, stroking his dark-haired head. “Why did you save me then?”

“It was all going to hell,” answered Loki after a pause. “Everything was collapsing, sinking. I felt that I was breaking. And then they brought you in. And you didn’t break. I wanted something real, something to hold on to. Something to hold on to and not give into the insanity that was breathing down my neck. And I held onto you.”

Thor crouched down and took Loki’s chin between his fingers, which were still missing the nails. They stared at each other for some time, then Thor closed his eyes and leaned to kiss Loki on the lips.

“You have to keep holding on,” said Thor, stroking Loki’s face, tracing every feature. “I will not let you break, do you hear me? I will not allow it.”

Loki abruptly pulled Thor to himself. And Thor remembered what Loki tasted of. Remembered the sweet feeling of the tongue snaking inside and twining with his own, remembered how responsive and tender and warm the lips can be. Remembered the drumming of the heart, the soft buzz in his ears and the burning aching feeling down below. 

They didn’t make it to the bedroom. Their clothes were scattered all over the floor in the living room. Thor sat in the armchair and pulled Loki up to straddle him. Loki arched, lifted his hips, bare heels sliding over along Thor’s knees.

Thor greedily studied Loki’s naked lithe body — his hard cock, his tense, well-defined abdominal muscles, his beautifully rounded pecs. He caressed every part of Loki he could reach, massaged his tight entrance with his fingers. Loki moaned, his eyes closed, grinding his arse against Thor, impaling himself onto the hard, strong fingers. 

When Thor finally breached him, Loki cried out and took him whole. And Thor finally understood what he’d been longing for all this time — the strong hot muscles, clenching around his cock, the scent of sweat, the fluttering black eyelashes and the deep, brisk moans. He’d longed for Loki. 

The position was uncomfortable, but he loved that Loki was so shamelessly open, loved pressing their bodies together, loved thrusting up into his tight, wet entrance, burying his face into the black curls and kissing the smooth sweaty shoulders. Thor took his time. He alternated between pushing in slowly, stilling when fully seated, and going for fast, choppy moves. Loki breathed heavily, all he could do in this position was spear himself onto the wet, bulbous head. When Thor caressed his groin, tracing his hand over Loki’s shaft and squeezing the tip, Loki would still above him, taut as a string. 

Thor was getting close. There was the unmistakable heaviness in his balls and the tingling ache in his groin. He stopped, picked Loki up and repositioned them to the floor, careful not to let his cock slip out. Loki went on his hands and knees, arched, let out a low moan.

Thor put his wide palms around Loki’s waist and turned deaf, turned blind. He wasn’t trying to hold back anymore — he took Loki the way he wanted — with brutal, fast, deep thrusts, pulling Loki onto himself and leaving bruises on his white skin. Loki’s screams filled the house, he dropped his head into his hands and struggled to stay on his knees. Thor went even faster, then abruptly pulled out. Loki turned over to lie on his back, taking himself under his knees and spreading his legs. His hole was wide open, inviting Thor in. 

Thor laid on top of Loki, covered his thin, bitten lips with his own, pushed into the hot tightness and pressed his body to his lover’s. He heard a muffled moan and felt the pulsing of the head, trapped between their bodies, the warm wetness spread across his stomach. He gave a few more hard thrusts, trying to go deep between pulsating walls, then shut his eyes and stilled, panting.

Loki pulled him into a hug, pressing his nose into Thor’s chest. Thor stroked his hair, feeling that this intense shared orgasm had bound them, glued them back together. Loki lied back and looked at Thor. Smiled. His eyes calm and gleaming. 

“I need a cigarette,” said Loki.

“You’re not going anywhere.” Thor chuckled and slid out of Loki with a slight wince. He traced over Loki’s jawline with the tips of his fingers. Loki found his hand and laced their fingers.

“Have you forgiven me?” asked Loki, searching Thor’s face. 

Thor nodded, his blue eyes were filled with tenderness. 

“And I haven’t. I will never forgive myself,” said Loki.

“Then, I will forgive you for the both of us.” Thor pressed his chest against Loki’s, muzzled his damp skin and sighed contentedly.

“I know I don’t deserve any of this. All I do is wait for it to collapse.” Loki combed his fingers through the golden hair, marvelling at it.

“Don’t think.” Thor propped himself up on his elbows. “Considering we should’ve both met our bullet by now, we are both living on borrowed time. Count your blessings. Come on, I need a drink too.”

They got off the floor and walked to the patio, stark naked, embracing. Thor stretched lazily, rubbed the muscles in his neck and poured himself more wine. Loki came over behind him, leaning in, nestling his chin on Thor’s shoulder.

“Light me a cigarette,” said Loki.

Thor pulled a cigarette out of the pack, lit it and gave it to Loki. They watched the sun go out, slipping into the waves. 

“So you want to work for the Americans?” asked Loki.

“Yes.” Thor nodded and covered Loki’s hand with his palm. “We’ll move to the States. Start over. Can’t stay here forever, can we?”

Loki didn’t answer. He took a drag and blew smoke out of his nostrils. The fleeting grey rings were almost indistinguishable against the cooling sky. Thor felt the warmth of Loki’s chest pressed against his back. The final hues of the sunset died away and the tiny dots of the first evening stars broke out on the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't butchered it with my translation, although it is entirely possible!
> 
> Chapter 2 is art.


End file.
